


A Brother's Desperate Plight

by HyenaKonrad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Desperation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Kidlock, Teen Mycroft, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock suffers from bladder shyness, and big brother Mycroft is there to help him overcome this obstacle. But trapped in a car with nowhere to go, what can he do to provide comfort?</p>
<p>Turns out that some things don't change either, even when one grows up and their big brother runs the British Government and you are the world's only Consulting Detective</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brother's Desperate Plight

Mycroft was very protective of his brother, even if he wouldn’t admit it. In the public eye, the older Holmes brother was callous and cold. All that mattered was his academics and extra-curriculars, being the student that ran up just about every organization of importance. He held a seat of power in his school, and commanded it with tact and intelligence. He didn’t bother with affairs of the heart (though he had a few young women who chased after him with sick puppy love), and he certainly had no time or place for friends. And for that, people labeled him cold and without emotion. He couldn’t relate to people. He was even recommended for counseling (of which he denied needing and his parents didn’t bother with seeking). But it was very much the opposite. These people were strangers and simply didn’t matter, so why waste his emotion on them? But there was someone who did matter, who Mycroft invested every ounce of his care in.

Young Sherlock was a queer boy. He, like his brother, was rather cold and didn’t quite express emotional attachment to those around him. He didn’t feel, think, nor react the same as his peers, and for that he was labeled a ‘freak’. His teachers were concerned, but again, neither he nor his parents were (not that Sherlock was at an age to be all too concerned for his emotional well-being). At a young age he knew he was different, but that was fine. Because he had his books, he had the world to learn from, he had his brilliant mind, and of course he had Mycroft. Mycroft more or less was a valuable guide in life, and helped him in his learning endeavors. The most valuable lessons he taught, however, were how to navigate social situations adequately enough to be able to make it day to day. Sherlock couldn’t shut himself in his room forever, so he had to learn to navigate the world and its people, despite how moronic they may be, and no Sherlock couldn’t tell them how simple their minds were. That was a bit not good. Mycroft, however, didn’t expect there to be a major road bump to Sherlock starting his schooling outside of his social inadequacies. 

On the first evening Sherlock had returned home from school, Mycroft was sitting in his favorite high backed chair in the sitting roof, glossing over the syllabus for his semester. He heard the front door open, and hurried feet rush into the house. A thud on the floor. Bag falling?

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft rose from his chair, walking out into the front entryway to see his brother whimpering, hands pressed into his crotch as he wriggled.

“Oh no, no, noooo…”

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft’s voice was commanding and scolding. Sherlock was well properly potty trained by now! There was no excuse for this! But the loud voice of his brother startled the young boy and his anxious little bladder, and his urine burst forth, blossoming over his khaki shorts and soaking down his legs into his shoes, creating a fair sized puddle on the floor. Unacceptable. Mycroft stormed forth and grabbed the boy’s wrist, yanking him around so his backside faced his older brother, and gave him three swift smacks on his rear.

“Sherlock I thought I’d trained you out of this! You can’t wee all over the floor! It’ll make you look bad. It’ll make me look bad! How can I take you out in public if I can’t be sure you’re not just going to wet all over yourself every time you—“

His tirade was halted by a harsh sob. This was uncharacteristic of Sherlock. Even when he would urinate all over the floor when Mycroft attempted to potty train him, he was defiant to the smacks of punishment, frigid and cold. He did not cry. He smirked even at causing his brother frustration. He liked giving Mycroft difficulty sometimes and making him work. But this was different. Sherlock wasn’t just crying; he was absolutely sobbing, shaking, trying to pull away from the tight hold his brother had on his wrist. His mind did a complete 180 turn. Mycroft, despite how soaked his brother was, took Sherlock into his arms and held the sobbing child, stroking a hand over the dense, tight curls on his quivering head.

“Sherlock, Sherlock…hush…”

“M-My…”

“Lock, hey, look at me.”

Sherlock looked at his brother, face red with the harsh crying, wet with tears. It tugged at Mycroft’s heart. He hadn’t seen Sherlock cry like this since he was an infant (and then he cried simply from instinct and need rather than hurt).

“Lock, why…help me understand why…what’s wrong?”

He may care for his brother, but Mycroft wasn’t elegant about it. Often times he stumbled over his words, no quite sure how to comfort the boy’s insecurities or explain why something was wrong, or any number of things.

“I…I h-had to wee and…and I asked her if I could g-go and…and she went with me…”

“And?”

Nothing out of the ordinary there. Sherlock was at a very young age where ordinarily his every move would need to be supervised by an adult. But he was a competent child and could handle himself (not that his instructors would understand that).

“And…I tried but…she was there and…it wouldn’t come out!”

Mycroft’s brows knit in confusion.

“Did you try to ask one of the male instructors to take you?”

“Yes! And I tried again and I couldn’t go! I…I h-had to go so bad My! It hurt!”

Sherlock let out a strangled noise, and Mycroft held the boy closer to his chest. Odd. Mycroft had always been present when Sherlock was being trained to use the toilet, so why was he so shy? Bladder shyness was the only conclusion he had been able to come to, but he couldn’t just assume he was right. Maybe this was a fluke. Nervousness from his first day at school? New environment? Perhaps. A test was in order. Mycroft just had to understand and sort this problem. For the sake of his brother.

~~

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and left for the evening, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock in the care of their nanny (Mycroft was old enough to care for Sherlock, but with his studies occupying his time, the nanny was there to ensue Sherlock kept out of things he wasn’t supposed to get in to). She hovered around the boy, always present in the room he chose to be in. It annoyed him immensely.

“My she won’t leave me alone!”

Mycroft cocked up an eyebrow, glancing up from his textbook for a moment to see the frustrated scowl on the small boy’s face. He couldn’t help but smile.

“She’s here to make sure you don’t get into mummy’s cosmetics again.”

Sherlock had a propensity for experimenting that got him in a lot of trouble at times. So being put in the background of Mycroft’s importance for his studies once more, Sherlock went back to doing whatever it was he was doing. Mycroft really hadn’t the faintest clue what that might be, but he was too busy to care. Hours later, his opportunity for his own little experiment came. He watched as Sherlock left the room, nanny in tow. And a few minutes later he came back, face scrunched with frustration and mild upset. But he ignored it. Another hour passed, and Sherlock was getting antsy. No. Desperate. He needed the loo, and Mycroft could tell that plain as day (came from having to hover over him during potty training when he would refuse to speak up about his bladder’s needs). Sherlock got up once more and left the room, nanny once again following. He was in great need, so Mycroft figured he would get over his shyness and just void his bladder properly.

He was wrong. A few minutes later, he came back once more. But this time, his face was rather panicked and urgent. He glanced at Mycroft, wishing desperately that he could ask his brother to come with him so that he could shoo away the nanny, but his brother was busy. Mycroft would not tolerate being bothered during his study time. So he sat down once more. Not ten minutes later, Sherlock was surprised with how intensely he needed to pee, and he shot to his feet, giving the frustrated nanny a nervous glance before dashing to his brother. Mycroft let his attention fall from his studies without any of the usual frustration. His studies didn’t matter right now.

“Myyyy…”

Sherlock crossed his legs tightly, wriggling his hips desperately as he whimpered. 

“Lock, you’ve been up twice already. Why don’t you just go?”

“My, I can’t!”

Sherlock looked on the verge of tears. He gasped and grabbed his crotch tightly. Mycroft looked down and saw a small wet spot soak into his trousers. Oh no. Mycroft deposited his book on the end table beside the chair, and scooped his brother up with ease before rushing out of the room.

“I’ve got him, don’t follow!”

The nanny looked flustered, but didn’t make to move.

“My, it’s going to come out!”

“Sssshhhh, hold on. Just one more moment. Hold on!”

Mycroft dashed into the washroom and set Sherlock down in front of the toilet. The boy quickly undid his trousers, and without the presence of the nanny to cause him any anxiety, his urine burst forth from him in a loud splash in the toilet. Mycroft let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his young brother’s back as Sherlock trembled, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“My…I don’t understand.”

“You’re bladder shy. Makes it hard to wee when other people are around.”

“But what do I do?!”

What could Sherlock do? He couldn’t very much just continue to suffer like this, day in and day out. It would put a strain on his body and he could become ill from it. No, there had to be a solution…

“I’ll think of something.”

~~

The next few weeks, Mycroft helped train Sherlock in a new way. He for one urged Sherlock to keep from drinking anything before and during school, and to hydrate himself while he was at home (bed wetting problems followed, but those were solved by careful planning of when to stop drinking before bed time). He also helped Sherlock learn to place himself in a state of mind where he could ignore his body’s needs should he start to feel the urge to urinate. Along with that, he trained Sherlock to hold his bladder for long hours at a time. Using the facilities at school seemed to be out of the question since the instructors insisted they had to be present when their students needed the loo, so Sherlock had to learn to wait until he got home.

The training was the hardest part. Forcing Sherlock into desperation was hard for Mycroft to watch, and he didn’t want to make his brother suffer so. But he reminded Sherlock in a mantra that he had to learn to hold it, that he could do it, and that Mycroft was there to take care of him. It took some time to learn, but after those long weeks, Sherlock started coming home from school capable of holding his water throughout the entire day and not so absolutely bursting for the toilet that he was wetting himself as he walked in through the door. There were even days where he could come home and relax for a time before he even needed the toilet. Mycroft was silently proud. For such a young boy, Sherlock was so very strong. He was glad to see Sherlock so confident. It had been going so well. 

It had been a few months since that accident, and Mycroft had put the incident out of his mind. As far as he was concerned it never happened, as he knew Sherlock would want it. Mycroft was currently sitting in the back of their father’s car, which was heading for Sherlock’s school to pick him up before embarking on the long journey to see their relatives. Why their parents insisted on seeing their extended relatives this time of year every year was beyond Mycroft. They were obviously not welcomed around, but their parents insisted that family connections were important to keep in case of emergencies. But instead of trying to find the will in himself to tolerate ‘those people’, he always took to spending those days with his brother, and ignoring the simpletons he was forced to call family. The only family that Mycroft was concerned about was the one they were on the way to pick up.

Pulling up in front of the school, Sherlock was standing at the curb, a look of uncertainty on his face. Why was mother in the car? That was the look Sherlock was giving Mycroft as he opened the door and slid inside. In fact, why was Mycroft in the car? Their father was the only one who generally picked him up, and as soon as Sherlock was dropped off at home, he was headed off again to work. Sherlock was confused further when their direction was taken away from home rather than towards it.

“Where are we going My?”

“To our relative’s. We talked about this last night Sherlock. We go to see them every year.”

Sherlock tensed in his seat, eyes going wide as he glanced out the window. Mycroft saw how he tensed, and instantly knew why. Sherlock needed the loo. He was uncertain that he was even going to make it home (a 20 minute drive from the school). He certainly wasn’t going to make it the two hours that they had on the road.

“Mummy, c-can we stop somewhere?”

“Sherlock you just got in the car. You’ll be fine. You’re a big boy.”

“B-But—“

“Sherlock Holmes!” their father snarled, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I don’t want to hear you complain for the remainder of the trip, do you hear me?”

If it was one thing their father didn’t tolerate, it was whining and complaining. Sherlock bit down his pleading, then looked down into his lap, eyes downcast. Mycroft could hardly take seeing him like this.

Half an hour passed, and Sherlock was in such need, Mycroft could see it. The small boy was fidgeting in his seat, biting back his moans as he crossed and uncrossed his legs, kicking them, jiggling his knees up and down, pressing down into his crotch with his hands.

“Father, I implore you, please, can’t we stop at a service station?”

Their father merely snorted, ignored Mycroft, and continued onward.

“I’m sleepy My…”

Mycroft looked to Sherlock. Surely he wasn’t tired, and was rather confused by the sudden statement when he understood what his brother needed. When Sherlock was a bit younger than this, and he was tuckered out by a long road trip, he would curl up in Mycroft’s lap, blanket draped around them, and sleep. Sherlock was seeking comfort and a small measure of privacy. And Mycroft couldn’t refuse. He pulled the blanket out from under his seat and beckoned Sherlock over. He gratefully unbuckled the seatbelt that had been merciless in his lap, and curled up against Mycroft, hiding under the blanket where his brother’s warm arms embraced him.

Sherlock was as tense as it got. His body was trembling, legs moving about. Mycroft grasped hold of one of them tightly, ducking his head beneath the blanket to give Sherlock a severe look.

“Stop moving.”

“B-But My…”

Sherlock’s breathing was labored, his eyes frenzied with such desperation. It tore at Mycroft’s heart. He tried his hardest to keep Sherlock out of painful situations, no matter what those situations may be. And when he couldn’t keep him out, he tried to get him out. But this time, Mycroft was powerless to get him out.

“M-My I need to go…”

“I know Sherlock…I know…”

The privacy of being under the blanket and the gentle whispers were a bit of a comfort, but nothing could comfort the desperate and pained boy. Nothing but relief of the burden in his bladder. But in the car, this expensive and luxurious car that their father pitched a fit if dirt was even tracked into, Sherlock simply couldn’t go.

But another half hour passed and Mycroft knew he had to think of something. Humming softly into Sherlock’s hair he’d managed to soothe the boy enough to quiet him into a false comfort. He wriggled from time to time, but he was calm enough to not attract too much attention from his parents. But that didn’t last forever. Sherlock let out a gasp and shoved his hands between his legs, pressing desperately as his eyes flashed back up to Mycroft. His stomach roiled with sympathy. He felt sick with anger at his father.

“M-My, I’m g-gonna wee in the car!”

“Sherlock you can’t…”

“MY!”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

Sherlock huddled close to Mycroft at the outburst from their father, a spurt leaking into his pants, soaking his trousers. Mycroft could see the damp spot. Christ.

“M-My h-help…”

“Hold on…”

He had to think, and think fast. He stroked his brother’s back in soothing circles, mind frantic, trying to think, think, think…the blanket! The fabric was thick, quite absorbent. It might just…

“M-My it’s coming out!”

Sherlock bit into his lip as he fought a wave of urgency, and another gush surged passed his grip.

“Move your hands.”

“But—“

“Now!”

Sherlock did as he was told, and Mycroft made quick work of his plan. He squeezed Sherlock’s crotch tightly (not too tightly, and oh how he had to not think about what he was doing. His brother for Christ sake!), and undid the zip to pull out his small, dribbling penis. Mycroft bundled up a length of the blanket, and aimed Sherlock into the fabric. Sherlock looked up to his brother, begging for permission. Oh please.

“My?”

“Go ahead Lock…go ahead…”

Sherlock bit into his lip and pressed his face into his brother’s chest, and let blessed relief take over him. His urine surged forward into the blanket. Thankfully being a small boy with a small bladder, the blanket had no trouble absorbing all of his urine. And Mycroft was so pleased to see the look of sheer relief on his face. After he finished, Sherlock stuffed himself back in his trousers, then exhaustion took over him. The smell wasn’t pleasant, but Mycroft didn’t mind. Anything for his dearest brother.

“Better?”

“Mmmm…My?”

“Yes?”

“…thank you…”

~~

Mycroft closed the file he held in his hands, his car speeding down the streets of London. All of these years, and his love for Sherlock has never faded. They grew more distant than they had been when they were just boys, that much was certain, but there were times when Sherlock still needed Mycroft, and the older Holmes brother was more than happy to oblige in helping him. He was always watching, and always waiting for Sherlock to call to him again (and reaching out to Sherlock when he was too stubborn to ask for the help he obviously needed). He was a more than capable man who’d made quite the name for himself, but all people need help, no matter how capable.

Sherlock was standing at the curb outside of Scotland Yard, looking nervous; reminiscent of that day so long ago. He was tense, and Mycroft knew that instantly. He put up the privacy window separating the back seats from the driver. Once the car had stopped, Sherlock yanked the door open and practically threw himself into the car, Mycroft shutting the door behind him before the car sped forward. Sherlock was in the back seat, shamelessly pressing his hands into his crotch. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t allow this of himself. He would force composure until the last moment. But this was Mycroft. His Mycroft. His dearest brother who would always take care of him until his dying days.

“You shouldn’t work yourself such long shifts.”

“It’s John’s fault. All of that water…”

“Now what did I tell you about drinking before you leave and while you’re out?”

Sherlock grunted, shooting Mycroft a withering glare before gyrating his hips into his hands, eyes shutting tightly. Mycroft would never get over the feeling of immense sympathy and sadness he felt towards Sherlock’s desperate plights. Trapped in a desperate need for relief but unable to find it because of a mentality that halted his body. Mycroft sighed out softly before moving to sit beside Sherlock, rubbing his hand up and down his back as he’s done so many times, noting a wet shine on the crotch of Sherlock’s trousers. They were still a good 20 minutes from Baker Street due to the traffic (longer if the traffic worsened).

“Sherlock, it’s ok, you don’t have to hold it any longer.”

Sherlock let out a dry laugh, crossing his legs tightly around his hands pressing into his crotch, rocking back and forth.

“Sherlock…”

“I’m not wetting myself in your car…”

A hint of fear. Memories. Father. Mycroft smiled tenderly, something he reserved for Sherlock’s eyes only, and only when the man desperately needed to see it.

“Lock, look at me.”

Pet name from long ago. A secret code. Sherlock looked up, eyes holding an innocence of the past.

“My?”

Mycroft rubbed his back firmly with encouragement, one hand tugging at one of his arms.

“Let go…it’s ok. I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock hesitated, then he removed his hands, leaned back in his seat, and let his urine pulse forth into his trousers, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“M-My…I’m sorry…”

“No need. I’ve got you. Big brother will make it ok…”

Mycroft would always make it ok, no matter what it took.

**Author's Note:**

> I really really wanted to write this after my first fic...like I don't know why I just...AUGH! SUDDEN WANT!  
> That and the car thing was a bit inspired by another fic on here (a very short fic, but one I liked and was intrigued by nontheless)  
> I love the Holmes brother dynamic and love fics with these two...need to hunt down some more good fics with these two...
> 
> So if any of you have any requests as far as watersports/desperation fics go, I'm open for suggestions!


End file.
